


Once You Have a Taste...

by LadyoftheSea



Series: Going a Little Mad [7]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Attempt at Humor, Clothed Sex, Creampie, Dominance, Exhibitionism, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Glove Kink, Humiliation, Light Bondage, Masochism, Orgasm Denial, Power Play, Spanking, Submission, Unsafe Sex, Voice Kink, Well kind of fluff???, he's an ass but much more bearable here lmao, kind of, this is still J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:27:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25140868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheSea/pseuds/LadyoftheSea
Summary: When a playfight takes a turn, you're angry and plan on giving him a taste of his own medicine. Unfortunately for you, you're about to discover the extreme measures Joker will take when he's not given his due.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s), Joker (DCU)/Reader, Joker (DCU)/You, Joker/You
Series: Going a Little Mad [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595734
Comments: 21
Kudos: 140





	Once You Have a Taste...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xSunnyx02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xSunnyx02/gifts).



> I'm sure Nolan would keel over if he knew just how much depraved smut I write and that I'm dedicating this one to _The Dark Knight_ 's release on this day, twelve years ago, but I know this is a series many of you love and enjoy and have been so supportive of, and I couldn't think of a better way to commemorate something that so radically changed my life and my interests than creating something I could share with all of you. I'm being very serious when I say that writing in many, many ways has made my life better and you guys are a huge part of that, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. 💖
> 
> This is for xSunnyx02 for being such a wonderful person and friend, and I wanna extend a thank you to Kihokosan and Lchan3706 for sparking the insane sex dream that informed the entirety of the smut in this one, lmao. No warnings this time other than J being an asshole because even when he's not completely awful, he still deserves to get dropkicked. 🤣
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy, and thanks for sticking with me and the series! 🥰

_To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves_

Federico Garcia Lorca

* * *

Even all these months later, Joker still seems to gain an unsightly amount of entertainment from fucking with you. He oscillates between a preteen prankster with the same scope of imagination and maturity and Satan incarnate with a fun side.

And you mean 'fun' as an insult.

Ever since… Well, the Joker's been much more present for the last two months. Rather than disappearing for weeks on end, he's taken to only leaving for two or three days at the most, spending the extra time with you. At first, you thought it was sweet. After what happened in the basement, you needed a steady presence to keep you from collapsing in a heap of guilt, overcome with the knowledge you'd really done _that_ with so little hesitation and more of you than you'd like to admit enjoyed it—enjoyed the violence.

Neither of you have brought up your 'confession', either. You think you'd die happy if you never brought it up again, didn't have to wrestle with the feelings or the realities that come with being with him. Besides, there's been enough for you to contend with that isn't you pouring your heart out like a teen girl. You struggled to get out of bed for weeks, to wake up and have the desire to do anything other than go back to sleep. But being with a man who isn't burdened with a conscience has made what happened easier to dismiss as time goes on, a small blip of the past, something you don't dwell on. You were grateful at first, glad that whatever mood he was in had ended, that he kept proving you wrong.

And then he introduced you to another new way of living—suffocating you with his presence, never leaving you alone long enough to catch your breath and see clearly, for reality to dawn on you. Instead, he's drowning you, always so close and smothering, his mood flickering back and forth—from jovial to malicious, dark eyes following you around the apartment to him pinning you against the nearest surface and fucking you until you scream, his hands around your throat and his teeth piercing your skin. There have been quiet moments, though. When he locks himself in his 'office' (as he calls it, you think of it being more akin to the devil's playroom), you use the reprieve to read, to work on finishing his sweater and starting one for yourself, taking a glorious nap where your body isn't pinned under his, skin so hot you're sure some nights you'll wake with welts and burns.

You're not sure what you prefer now—him to be absentee and you lonely, or this new hell where he's a constant presence who demands all of your attention to centre around him. If you didn't do so of your own volition, search him out even if he would shoo you away solely because he liked saying no to you, he gave you plenty of reason for it to happen anyway.

Like this morning. It's mid-spring now and unseasonably warm, the humidity bloating the walls and thickening the air until it feels like it takes twice the effort to breathe, syrupy vapours that coat your lungs, your throat. There is no air conditioning in the apartment, and your pleading with J only led to him buying a small fan for the bedroom so you could sleep at night (not that it mattered so much, being that you sleep next to a human furnace). You were so tired this morning that you didn't notice he switched your conditioner with liquid honey until it was in your hair, and, to your dismay, you could hear him cackling from your room when you shouted out a long string of profanity.

"What the _fuck,_ J! You absolute _asshole_ ," you shouted, and when you could hear him laughing harder, that had been the last straw. You grabbed a towel, otherwise soaking wet and drops of honey dripping from your temples to land on your shoulders and rain down your spine, you armed yourself with your long-handled scrub brush with full intentions of smacking him on the head with little thought or care for the consequences.

You really should know better by now.

He was giggling like a schoolboy and egging you on, and, like the idiot you are, you fell for it. The whole ordeal culminated to you both ending up on the balcony, him dodging your swings and howling, almost blind from laughter and _still_ more coordinated than you, always just out of reach and his fucking _infernal_ smile only growing wider. It made it worse that your chosen tool of retribution was essentially a glorified loofah, and it bounced off his head rather than getting any sort of satisfying hit. It really undermined the whole _I'm going to fucking kill you_ death threats you were yelling in his face.

Your towel was almost sliding off of you, but you didn't care—you were gonna give him a haircut, see how _he_ liked having his hair messed with. You weren't sure _how_ you'd make it happen, but, by God, you'd find a way.

But things rarely go your way, do they?

You had him cornered against the railing, calling him names, telling him to fuck with someone else for once, that you were going to bleach his suit the next time you had to wash off the blood and viscera, and he was letting you win for a little while, too entertained by your anger and unconcerned that you'd do something substantial. But then, as it so often is with him, some switch flipped in his head and his humour disappeared. Catching your arms, he spun around so _you_ were the one cornered. Your struggling didn't mean much—he's always been so much stronger—and you were the one left exhausted while he seemed unbothered. He leaned over you, making your back bend uncomfortably over the rusted, orange metal as he looked at you with something you thought might be pity, eyebrows drawn up and mouth slightly pouting. Now you realize it was a poor attempt at contrition.

Things after that happened quickly.

It had rained the night before, the metal platform slick with water, grass sweet-smelling even from the second floor, and there was a very large puddle directly below you, no more than six feet or so down. Said puddle was more like a mud pit, something that'll probably turn into a sinkhole one of these days, and a favourite playing spot for the neighbourhood raccoons.

You _really_ should've been able to see where this was going.

Adjusting, he pushed you so far back that your feet no longer touched the balcony, your weight tipping until you could feel gravity's keen pull. "J?" you said, voice shaking as you tried to summon a laugh, find the sweet spot where he was in good humour again, but he looked like he was sympathizing with a child who just scraped their knee. "J—c'mon—"

"Aww, you _nervous_ , doll?" he tutted, still maintaining the facade of innocence as he pushed you back until it was his grip on your biceps, your thighs resting on the railing, and you grabbing his tie for dear life that kept you from falling.

You've never been one for heights, vertigo distorting the distance until it seemed like you were twenty feet up. You were convinced it would hurt, that you'd break something, and you _really_ didn't want to land in the community raccoon pool.

"Let go of me!"

You tried sounding stern instead of scared, giving him your best _you'd better fucking not_ look. He started smiling again, a short giggle building in his throat.

"Ya _sure_ about that, bunny?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow. Too panicked to think it through, you nodded. Shaking his head, he clicked his tongue. " _Very_ poor choice of words."

"Don't you _dare—_ "

Oh, but he did.

In the end, you were caked in mud, your hair filled with honey, and listening to him lose his mind with laughter while you sat, defeated, in the puddle. You have a few bruises on your back to show for it, but it didn't measure anywhere close to your sense of wounded ego and impotent rage. He seemed to know you were about to go on the warpath, that it wouldn't be fun and you'd be looking to _actually_ murder him, so he did what he deemed logical in his mind: He went inside and locked the door.

That brings you to now, two hours later and finally being let back into the apartment to wash off the dried mud and to salvage your sticky rat's nest of hair.

"Ya get that out of your system, babygirl?" he asks when he unlocks the door.

If it wasn't for the fear of him locking you out again, you'd deck him. You glare instead, cursing yourself and your temper, and resolve to find more _subtle_ ways to get back at him. Each idea is worse than the last, but you're sure you'll think of something eventually. He finds your silence entertaining, grabbing the back of your neck to pull you close and plant a wet kiss on your cheek. He's still chortling to himself as you pad down the hall, dirty footprints leaving a trail behind you.

After staying in the shower until the hot water runs out and managing to get a comb through your hair without it getting stuck, you settle for locking yourself in the bedroom. _We'll see how much_ he _likes it,_ you think. It'll take several hours for him to notice, or care enough to jimmy the lock, but it's the thought that counts.

 _I won't be the one fixing this,_ you think, wrapping yourself in your fuzzy bathrobe despite the heat coming through the plaster, and you settle yourself for the long haul. For once, _you'll_ be the stubborn one. _See how much you like_ that _, J._

But, like with everything else, you really, _really_ should've seen where this is going.

* * *

In your head, it's a great plan, giving him a taste of his own medicine, but as the hours tick by and you only hear him banging something around in his office and the living room with the TV blaring, you grow hungry. And, as you think about it, his well of spite is much deeper than yours, and he'd sleep on the couch until you came out, and _then_ he'd think of something worse for the inconvenience.

_There's no winning with him, is there?_

Or…

He craves your attention, doesn't he? He might not ever say it, but that much is clear. Joker gets off on your reactions, getting a rise out of you, doing whatever it is he wants you to do. It's as much about control as it is an immature source of malicious entertainment. But there's nothing he can do if you become the definition of a killjoy. You've never been the best at hiding your feelings, and this might be the perfect time to practice. The silent treatment might be childish, but so is he.

_Fight fire with fire._

As you unlock the door and go to the kitchen to make something, your mind runs through different arguments he might use when he gets angry, coming up with condescending jabs that'll rival his. _Oh, being quiet isn't allowed now? I didn't know being hard of hearing was a crime. Did I upset you, babe?_ He _hates_ it when you call him that, and you decide it'll be the only thing you'll call him for a week. You try not to smile to yourself, finding a new sense of angry determination.

You're still in your bathrobe, standing on tiptoe to reach the high cupboards where J likes to hide your favourite cereal, and you purposely don't look toward the living room. You can sense him there, hear him shuffling something, and, even though you're curious, you don't turn, don't even _think_ about it. After all your time together, you've come to think of J as a 'people person'. Not in the sense it's usually meant—that he's personable, easy to get along with, diplomatic—but as a trait that defines a lot of his successes, his relationships with others (if you can call them that). He'll look at a person and know what they're thinking, if they're hiding something, lying—and he can read shifts in attitudes just from the way someone's standing, their posture and eye contact. It's so hard to say no to him when he can anticipate the avenues your mind will follow, what to say and do to get someone to come around to his way of thinking.

And you've seen what it looks like when that doesn't work, when he resorts to a different kind of persuasion. One that's much bloodier.

Hands land on your shoulders and slide down your arms, pulling you towards that familiar, radiating heat. You're proud that you don't jump in surprise, that your body's staying loose as he buries his nose in your hair, kissing your neck. The urge to melt into him is overwhelming, almost instinctual at this point, but you keep your body as it was before—not stiff, but not relaxed either.

"What're you making?" he asks.

It's a redundant question, the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch is right in front of you next to a bowl. You're not sure if this is a not so subtle nudge for you to make something, his way of pretending he wasn't a total ass earlier, but you stay firm and say nothing.

His grip tightens on your arms. "Hmm?" he prompts.

The hair on the back of your neck stands at attention, but you swallow your misgivings and hesitation, calmly grabbing the bowl and the box of cereal and pulling away from him, not even sparing a glance his way. You hear him growling as you take the milk from the fridge, but you keep your back to him (a dangerous game already) and sit at the table neither of you actually use any other day. Making a big show of sitting and pouring everything in your bowl, you eat away, studiously reading the back of the cereal box to keep your eyes occupied.

He doesn't like it, you can tell. Standing in the kitchen, you feel the heavy weight of his eyes on you, searing an imprint into your skin. It's harder not to react to that—to not let your shoulders roll back or to visibly shiver—and more difficult still when he slowly walks towards you. He's quiet when he wants to be, but he's letting you hear his footsteps, a last warning to backtrack and make nice.

You keep reading the nutritional facts like they're the most goddamn interesting thing you've ever encountered.

Leaning on the table so he can see your face, he crosses his arms. It's harder watching him in your peripherals, but you manage. "Got something you wanna say?"

Ignoring him when he's this close to your face won't last, so you clear your expression and look up at him with big eyes. "What makes you think that?" You sound sickly sweet, borderline mocking, but you play it straight and don't give away your anger with a vindictive smile.

He narrows his eyes, looking you up and down, and smacks his lips together with a loud _pop_. "You're being… _weird._ "

 _Fuck,_ it is so hard not to react. He doesn't know what to make of what you're doing—it's new for you, and it's satisfying to see him off-balance, no matter how he tries to hide it.

"You're hardly one to talk." Taking a big bite of your cereal, you go back to reading the box with renewed interest.

He _really_ doesn't like that.

Grabbing your jaw, he twists your head and almost pulls you out of the chair, squeezing until your lips purse and your teeth ache. " _Heh._ I hope you know that, ah… you're treadin' on some _mighty_ thin ice, babygirl." His voice is deep, threatening, a growl you've heard tigers make when you've gone to the zoo. If his intention is to scare you, it's working, but you refuse to let it show.

"Am I?" you say when he relaxes his hold enough for you to speak, playing innocent and batting your eyelashes. "Huh. And here I thought you _liked_ it when I was quiet while you work. My mistake."

Your appetite's gone, and you try to stand before he pushes you back down. He won't let you walk away like you did in the kitchen.

 _Keep it together. Don't you_ dare _crack first._

His lids droop, mouth working back and forth as he thinks, and his hand moves from your jaw to your neck, his thumb brushing across your throat before sliding underneath your robe, his warm skin against yours. You almost think he's going to feel your heartbeat, touch the brand he left, see just how much this is unnerving you, but it drops down to your ribs instead as he forces the robe open, exposing your chest. Blood rushes to your face, to where he's touching you, and he comes close, murmuring in your ear, "Ya sure you wanna play this game? _You'll lose_. Just like you always do."

He pinches a nipple between his fingers, twisting and pulling in the way he knows drives you crazy, and you barely suppress a gasp, keep your breathing close to some semblance of calm. But his words have the opposite intended effect—your resolution stays firm, and you meet his gaze with a straight face.

"Am I supposed to feel something?" you ask, bored.

Gripping your breast in his hand, the other goes to your throat, his thumb against your windpipe. The sudden memory of Aaron being stabbed right where he's pressing hits you like a punch to the ribs, and you know for certain he's picking up the quickening pace of your pulse now. He's smiling, but it's anything but kind—the one you've seen him reserve for when he's absolutely _seething_ , the jagged scars reaching upward to his black eyes and his teeth bared.

"You wanna be a _brat_ , hmm? We'll, ah, see how far _that_ gets ya, doll," he says, just as sweetly as you had before, but his words are heavy with threats you _know_ he can and will follow through on, "and I can guaran- _tee_ you won't like what happens next."

Rather than fear, you feel a faint sense of victory—you've managed to get under his skin. "I have no idea what you're talking about, _babe_."

His smile disappears at the pet name, and you're overcome with the urge to laugh in his face. Certain he's going to either slap you or worse, you brace yourself when he tightens his grip hard enough to leave a new set of bruises. But, to your surprise, he does nothing. Gone by the time you blink, you're left reeling in his absence, your mental reactions now matching the physical, but you have one prevailing thought: you've won the battle, and now you have to get ready for the war.

* * *

For the next two hours, he leaves you alone, ignoring you just as much as you're ignoring him, but you can feel his anger building until you think he might burst. At this point, though, there is no making nice, and _you_ sure as hell won't make the first move.

_Doesn't mean I can't do my own egging on, does it?_

As much as he'd deny it, he has a hard time _not_ losing it when you wear a dress. You've noticed it on a few occasions, how he seems to go feral in a way where he's less in control and more interested in being inside you, going hard and fast instead of drawing it out. You're not sure if it stems from some unexpected, deep-seated preference or if he just likes the convenience of hiking it around your waist and fucking you whenever he likes, but it doesn't matter. He's always having the time of his life pushing your buttons, and it's high time you did the same.

Joker might've skimped out when it came to buying an AC unit, but he was more than generous in letting you go through all your favourite stores online and ordering whatever you liked. He seems to enjoy anything you wear, eyeing you appreciatively when he thinks you aren't looking, his gaze thick with want. You're not entirely sure what he'll do, but you think making him come to you is another win, an unspoken assertion that he needs you more than he says he does, that you _do_ have an affect on him.

And now it's time to put the theory to the test.

It takes longer than you'd like to do anything with your hair, it's still slightly sticky in some areas and stuck together in others, but you manage to make it work. With your shopping spree, you bought a few sundresses for the summer, but it's hot enough now you won't be cold walking around the apartment in one. It's a bit shorter than you'd usually wear, barely reaching mid thigh, a soft lavender purple with a white floral pattern and a large bow that ties it together at your back. The front plunge is deep and the spaghetti straps thin—and, now that you're wearing it, adjusting the fabric to sit right on your hips and chest, the whole thing feels rather flimsy. You shrug. It might make things a lot easier for you and drive him nuts.

_About time he knows what it feels like._

Topping it off with some mascara and a bit of perfume, you leave your room again, a knot forming in your stomach despite the bravado you're riding. This could go south in a way you're not planning, but the payoff is worth the risk. Barefoot, you pad into the kitchen, making noise without being _too_ obvious you're doing it for his attention, and pick out random things in the hopes it'll help you decide on something for dinner. It's hard not to look behind you to see if it's working, to keep your attention focused ahead, but you manage it—even though everything in you is screaming about what a _terrible_ idea this is.

 _No backing out now,_ you think, deciding on pasta and filling a large pot with water before putting it on the stove to boil. When you turn around to get the ingredients for the sauce, you walk face-first into his chest, squeaking with surprise despite your best efforts. He's towering above you, something brewing in his eyes, and you involuntarily swallow.

"Wanna tell me what you're doin'?" he asks. You know better than to trust the light tone, dread starting from your toes and freezing your limbs as it works its way to your throat. Raising his brows, he looks off into the corner before his tongue swipes across his lips. "You're all… _dolled up_ with nowhere to go, so I can _only_ assume…" he's backing you against the counter, and you're filled with the memories of what happened the last time he was angry in the kitchen, how he had the knife pressed against your cheek and when you heard what was likely him drowning someone in the sink, "it's for _me._ You all wrapped _up_ like a present."

His gloved hand is on your shoulder, pulling the strap down, his heat and the weight of his chest against yours. It's hard to think like this, when he's so close, when your body fits so neatly with his. You're wet, you can feel it, and you think he knows when his hand slides down your arm and rests on your waist, his fingers pressing into your soft skin. Breathing getting heavy when he leans down, his mouth close to yours, it takes several blinks for your sense to find you, and you duck under him and slip away before he can slam you back into place.

"Not everything is about you, _babe_." Dangerous words, you know they are, but you're not giving up easy. Abandoning your attempt at supper, you walk out of the kitchen before he can grab you by the hair.

But he's always been so much faster than you.

He doesn't bother being quiet when he walks up behind you, and you're too slow to react when he takes you by the arm and pushes you towards the couch, making you stumble and fall into the cushions. Before you can right yourself, his hands are on your hips and his hardening length pressed against your backside. He forces you down when you try to move, snarling in anger, "It's not, huh? _You_ certainly give a different impression, babygirl. You wanna know what _I_ think?"

"N-Not particularly," you say, regretting it as soon as it's out of your mouth.

Joker bursts into laughter, his whole body shaking above yours, and his grip eases. " _I_ think you're trying to prove a poin- _t._ " Flipping you over, he sits down beside you, dragging you onto his lap until you're straddling him. You start to wish you were wearing panties when your pussy grinds against the rough fabric of his slacks, and you hiss when he buries his hand in your hair and pulls, baring your throat to him. "Do you _really_ wanna see how that plays out?

You now realize that, rather than you being David and him Goliath, you're more of an unfortunate mortal who's picked a fight with a vengeful Greek god, and, no matter how great your efforts, there really isn't much you can do to bring him down, not without some kind of magic of your own. And in all those myths you've read, mortals were always the play things of forces bigger than themselves.

You've never related to something so much in your entire life.

When you can't summon an answer, determined at least to maintain your silence, until his hand goes under the skirt of your dress, the rough, leather stitching of his glove brushing against your clit. You can barely keep your breathing even.

"C'mon now, be _honest_ for Daddy," he purrs in your ear as he moves his thumb, the leather gliding down your slit into your wet heat.

_Keep it together, keep it together—_

But then one of his fingers works its way inside you, reaching high to brush against your walls. The stitching and leather feels odd, a new sensation that makes it hard to think.

"You—you're a jerk— _ah!"_

He pulls harder on your hair and adds another finger, pushing them in deep as he bites the lobe of your ear hard enough you think he might tear it off. You hate yourself a little more when you moan.

"Your, ah, _cunt_ is saying somethin' different," he murmurs, his voice vibrating in your ear.

 _Resist—don't give in every single time_ , you think, focussing on the thought as you try to get off of him. He only responds by curling his fingers inside you and adding a third, and your thighs shake so bad that you collapse against him. But you're not willing to give up yet.

"I don't want— _mm!_ —" Every time you try to talk, he focuses on your clit again with his thumb, his fingers pumping in and out of you. "Sex isn't for—for _jerks_ who put honey in my hair and—"

He really gets off on making you struggle doesn't he?

You're interrupted when he pulls his fingers out only to replace it with his cock, slamming into you without giving you a second to adjust. Every thought in your head leaves as he fills you, and you don't think it'll matter how many times he does this, it'll always feel the same, like your brain's misfiring and you've only ever been caught up in him, like it's all you'll ever want.

And the bastard knows it, too.

"That's _cute,_ babygirl," he growls, punctuating each word with a hard thrust into you, "You _like it_ when I'm mean to you."

"N-No—"

He laughs, bouncing you on his cock, and pulls down the front of your dress, his eyes glued to your breasts and his lips stretching in a self-satisfied smirk. "Then why're you so _wet_ , hmm?"

_Fuck._

"In—involuntary response, _hah—"_

Your words disappear when he takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking and biting down hard before releasing it with a wet _pop._ "You keep tellin' yourself that."

He keeps on like that, fucking you until any coherent thought leaves your brain and all that matters is his cock in you, your cunt stretching around him, how empty you feel when he pulls out and being so full it hurts when he slams back to the hilt. It doesn't take long before you're close, a mess of nerves where he knows every sensitive place, every spot that drives you to the edge. The irony of how much you hate it when he does this—pushing on the figurative buttons that drive you insane—any other time he's not inside your pussy isn't lost on you, but you can't bring yourself to care. You're gripping his shoulders for dear life, your hips moving up and down, and you're _so close—_

" _Ah-ta-ta_." When you're full of him again, he stops your hips, keeping you impaled on his cock. You can feel it deep in your core, and you moan, searching for your climax and his, but he holds you still, adjusting with a groan as he cracks his neck. "Only _good girls_ cum, doll."

You don't want to find out what he means by that, you just whimper and roll your hips around him, hoping he'll lose it and keep fucking you. He chuckles instead, pushing your hair behind your ears as he settles to wait you out, pushing his hips upward until his cock's somehow even deeper in you, and you shudder.

"Ask me." You really fucking hate how much more patient he is than you, how he manages to make you so goddamn _needy,_ desperate for him, and it's so hard not to do what you have for months—plead for it sweetly, call him _Daddy_ , whine and moan for him until he hits _just_ the right spot and you go blind with the feeling of it. He makes it worse just by speaking; hating, too, how his voice sends shivers down your spine, makes your clit throb. " _Beg for it."_

Staring into his eyes for a long minute, your climax wandering further and further away, your resolve crumbles in his hands. You regret ever saying you loved him, that you needed him—and you hate him for how he constantly makes you into a liar. Head dropping to rest on his shoulder, your face burning with the humiliation that comes with submission, you try to find a silver lining. What you wanted still happened—he lost control, and he really _does_ need you, want you. He just likes setting the pace and dictating the rules, but maybe there is a victory for yourself in this. It's with that thought you raise your head and meet his eyes, swallowing hard.

"Daddy, please let me cum," you pant against his ruined lips, your cunt aching for him to move, " _Please_ , I want your cum inside me—"

You nearly jump out of your skin when something heavy slams into the floor, hearing what must be pop cans bursting open and hissing as something with glass shatters. Joker doesn't loosen his hold on you, but when you twist around, you're shocked to see a man named Mitch standing just past the entryway, the front door swinging wide behind him.

The same Mitch who buys your groceries (which are now all over the floor).

The Mitch who J assigned to run all your errands for you.

Mitch, the man who stood at the top of the basement stairs while you and J were fucking like blood-covered rabbits after you finished torturing and murdering a man and you were high. (That thought slams into you, but now is not the time for a moral crisis.)

You scream and cover your chest with your arms, having every intention of locking yourself in your room and dying there, but Joker has other ideas. In great contrast to you, he doesn't look surprised or embarrassed at all. He doesn't even look perturbed. His smile only widens into a full-toothed grin. A terrible realization hits you.

 _Has Mitch… been standing there, looking like he just caught his parents having sex, and J said_ NOTHING?!

You'll kill him. You know you can do it now, you just need to catch him by surprise, get him in the throat before he can react. Yeah, you can do that, as soon as your dress is fixed and the piece of shit who's still inside you stops messing around. But when you try moving off of him again, grateful at least that the skirt of your dress is maintaining some of your dignity, he slams you back in place and chuckles under his breath when you moan.

You've never wanted to die more in your life.

"Well, _hello,_ there," he says, pumping his eyebrows at Mitch. The poor guy looks like he wants to join you in death. Eyes wandering down, Joker clicks his tongue in disapproval, even though the nefarious grin goes nowhere, "Are you _hard_ , Mitch? _Gettin' off_ watching my bunny?"

He can't be doing this—he can't play fucking _mind games_ with him while his cock's still buried inside you—and you can only see this ending one way: Joker's going to terrorize him before putting a bullet in his head.

Mitch shakes, his eyes on the floor and hands in front of him. He's not a small man, burly and bald, he has at least fifteen years on you, but from looking at him, one would think he's a boy out of his mind with terror and embarrassment. You're not sure what to call the feeling in your stomach when you see that he _is_ hard, but you wrap your arms around your chest harder _._

"N-No, sir—" he sputters, choking and barely able to breathe as he looks like he's about to fall over.

Unable to bear the humiliation burning through you like napalm, you try to hide against Joker's chest, tears burning your eyes at this new, fucked up situation you never expected from him but should have.

He has other ideas.

"Ah-ta-ta," he tuts, moving his hands from your hips only to grab your forearms and pull them away from your chest and behind your back. You struggle until you realize just how exposed you are, how your dress frames your breasts, and you cry from sheer embarrassment as the Joker undoes the bow at your back and uses it to tie your hands together. You could work your arms out of the knot, but you're not sure what the point would be—J doesn't want you going _anywhere._ "Be _honest_. Hard to _lie_ when you're, ah, pitching a ten _-t_." He giggles mockingly, his eyes leaving Mitch to stare at you, starting at your breasts and slowly dragging them up to your throat until they meet yours. He adjusts his hips upward just to make you moan as he reaches ever deeper inside you, your cunt spasming around him. "Isn't my bunny _beautiful_ , Mitch?"

Yanking on your bound arms until your spine arches for him, you look away in shame, trying to calm down so your chest will stop heaving. Mitch faces the wall, staring at one fixed point in the far distance like his life depends on it. When you look on the couch cushion, you see the Joker's handgun beside his thigh in plain view for Mitch to see.

_That's because it does._

It's a trick question. If Mitch compliments you too much, it'll tell Joker he looks at you enough to form an opinion, if he says something to insult either of you, he's signing his own death warrant. To make it all worse, Joker starts moving inside of you slowly, drawing back before sinking into you. He palms one of your breasts, squeezing it as he swipes a thumb across your hardening nipple.

"Sh-She's perf—perfect for you, sir," Mitch manages, unsure if he should be keeping eye contact or staring out the window.

Joker thrusts into you hard, and you shudder and whine, your walls contracting around him, driving him deeper despite the screaming in your brain.

"What do _you_ think, babygirl, hmm? Are you, ah, _perfect_ for me?" he asks, chuckling darkly when you manage to keep back another gasp.

You know what the right answer is— _I'm whatever you want me to be, Daddy_ —but you haven't lost your spite yet.

"I think you're an asshole," you reply through gritted teeth, crying out when he twists your arms and drives into you so hard you swear you feel him near your navel.

"Wrong answer, doll," he says, sitting up on the couch and dragging you along with him as you pant, unable to take in enough air as your clit rubs against his base. His smile turns into a scowl when he finds Mitch trying to quietly slip out the door, and you both don't miss how the Joker's hand lands on the grip of the gun. "Did I _say_ you could leave?"

Mitch stops, sweat soaking the back of his shirt. He doesn't dare look your way, and you don't know why so much pressure is building in you, how it makes your blood rush and your nerves tingle.

"Uh, n-no, but—" he stammers.

Joker rolls his eyes. " _Stay_."

Mitch looks very much like he wants nothing more than to be struck by lightning, and you find yourself sharing the sentiments, even as your brain has a hard time holding onto any coherent thought apart from needing to cum and how he's throbbing inside you.

"What do you think your punishment should be, babygirl?"

You almost don't hear him, and you close your eyes, hoping that if you wish hard enough, this nightmare will end. The Joker doesn't like that. He wants you in the present moment, all too aware of what's happening, and he slaps you, the leather smarting against your cheek. He rubs the stinging skin with his thumb, his eyes full of pernicious condescension, and you glare even as he taps his palm on your cheek, threatening to hit you again.

"I know it's _hard_ for you to think when I'm, ah—" he bursts out cackling, pulling your wrists down as he leans forward, spearing you from a different angle that winds you, " _inside you,_ but try your _best_ now."

 _Punish? What the hell does he have to punish_ me _for?_

"I don't— _mm_ —I don't know—" you force out, baffled how he's still hard.

His hand goes from your cheek to your neck, sliding down until he's rubbing your nipple, flicking it back and forth with the ridge of his glove. "You've been _bad_ today, haven't you? Tryin' to make me angry, _rile me up,_ and, ah, hate to break it to you, bu- _t_ …" he scoffs, his eyes roaming before finding their way back to you, "it worked."

_Oh, fucking Christ._

"J—" you start, but he tugs hard on your nipple until you see stars, choking on a groan. You try again, "D-Daddy, please, let's just—can he leave, at least? _Please_ —"

"Here's your options. Either I can… uh, keep fucking you and _dear_ Mitch can leave, but I won't let you cum for a week," he says, the words spilling from his mouth like he's just thought this up, but you know better, " _or,_ and this is _generous_ of me, you can bend over and I'll teach you a lesson right now and he can watch, see just how _bad_ you've been, and you get a _treat_ later."

He says it so lightly, like he really is giving you a generous choice in the matter, his expression as playful as it is malicious. You find your anger and hold it tight.

"No—no, I don't want—I'm not a _dog_ , you bastard—"

His hand cracks against your cheek, making you bite your tongue in the process. You're stunned for a moment, anger simmering into a helpless fire inside your belly as an unbearable ache starts in your clit and wraps around you.

"That's not on the menu, babygirl." He sounds like he's talking about fucking ice cream flavours, like he isn't being the worst human being on the planet. " _Pick one._ "

_He's being serious. Of course he is._

A helpless whimper builds in your throat, coming out as a quiet plea as you try to turn away from them both and he forces you to stay in place. "Please, can't we—don't be like this— _ah!_ "

He pulls your arms until you think you'll fall off the couch, but he makes sure he's still buried in you. The anxiety rolling off of Mitch seems to infect you, making your heart race and thoughts skip. Joker tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowed into slits. "It's like you _wanted_ this to happen. Mm- _hmm._ Wearing such a _skimpy_ little dress, doing up your hair… and you are _soaked,_ babygirl."

Mortified, you keep your head down as the back of your eyes sting. You can't bear the thought of either option. Even thinking as far back as middle school, you've never experienced something that made you want to have your existence erased until now. You thought you knew pain, you thought you knew what shame was, but he's demonstrating that, once again, you don't really know any of it, that you toed the edge your whole life until you plunged into the dark with him.

And he seems endlessly willing to show you he _does_ know and you will, too, by the time he's finished.

"I fucking hate you." It's impulsive, the first thing that comes to your mouth, but each sounds terrible and he can't make you choose.

"Poor choice of words, babygirl." He shrugs, a wicked smile curling his lips. "It's, ah… _dealer's choice_ , then _._ "

You wish you never knew what stubbornness was—it's too late to change his mind, but you have to try, "No, wait— _J—_ "

Hands going under your thighs, he stands and keeps you in place against his hips, your head pressing into his shoulder to keep from falling backward. He isn't going far, stopping at the table to set you down before shoving you onto your back, your arms pinned behind you uncomfortably. He readjusts, pushing his cock back in from where it had started slipping out, and you burn hotter for knowing that Mitch is here to see how absolutely _pathetic_ you are.

Begging is certainly useless at this point, and you can't even summon the words to try. He laughs under his breath at whatever expression you're making, rolling his eyes and muttering something. Pulling your hips closer to the edge of the table, hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise, his gaze stays on you as he calls over his shoulder, "Try not to, ah— _heh,_ cream your pants, Mitch."

He sets a brutal pace, doing all the things he knows will make you cry out and moan, but he's careful to avoid any contact with your clit, making you stretch around him without the ecstasy of feeling your climax build. The sweet smell of split fruit and ruined food and his sweat and the heady scent you both make when you fuck fills your nose. Your hole will be aching for days by the time he's finished with you, but you can't stop yourself from whimpering at the thought.

"I think you _like_ Mitch watching. You really are a slutty _little_ bunny, aren't you?" he asks after slamming into you and holding his cock there, and you cry out as he keeps hitting the deepest parts of you.

You shake your head, trying to make your voice work in a way that won't prove his point, "N-No—"

He leans over you, still deep in your cunt as he blocks out everything else, just makes it you and him, and murmurs in your ear, "Don't forget," one hand leaves your hip and grabs your shoulder, pushing you down impossibly further onto his cock, " _I can tell when you're lying._ "

You don't have the opportunity to protest, he's working you like an instrument he's mastered. You hate him for the wet noises coming from him driving into your sopping cunt and your building whimpers and cries. You hate him even more for how _good_ it all feels, the building pulse throbbing against your skin, a burning heat signalling that you're close to cumming despite having a man fearing for his life and getting a hard-on from watching you.

"Why don't you tell 'im how much you love this, _hmm_? Getting _fucked_ in front of an audience."

He's unrelenting, making each syllable sound like it's been hit from you, barely audible with the heavy pants and desperate gasps for more air. "Y-You're such an ass— _ah!"_

"Or maybe you could tell him how wet you get when I'm wringing the life from you, huh?" he snarls, finally touching your clit until you scream out a plea for relief, only for him to douse the raging fire burning you whole. Just as you're _so close,_ he takes his hand away to wrap both around your throat, the leather tight and smooth against your skin. "C'mon. _Admit it._ You love this—you _live_ for it." It's getting harder to lie, to convince yourself that you _don't_ like this. You resolved to do anything as long as it's with him, and he seems to be putting that to the test. "He heard your little, ah, _confession_ , babygirl, so the only person you're lying to is _you_."

You hate him more when it dawns on you that the thrill you're feeling, this fire in your nerves, is _because_ Mitch is watching you get fucked. You bite your lip hard to stop the scream threatening to tear out of your chest, and the fresh taste of blood seems to snap something in your brain, turning you into some debauched creature. Panting and unable to form a complete sentence, you're _so fucking close_ —so desperate to feel him spill inside you—and he is, too. You can feel it.

"I—I love it—" you force out, writhing around him as he hits a particularly sensitive spot along your walls, his thrusts turning shallow and keeping you full.

"'Course you do." He's grinning like he really is Beelzebub, wicked satisfaction dripping from his eyes as he can't help but groan himself.

You really don't have a sense of shame anymore, and it's with a dull shock that you're so similar to him on that now, how he keeps finding new pieces of you to unlock. "I-I love you—I love your… your cock, Daddy— _hah!"_

Struggling to draw in air, you're almost out of body—so close to cumming but so far away—and you're desperate. Maybe you are a slut. From how much your pussy's tightening at the thought of Mitch watching, seeing you fucked and begging. But you find a strange sort of power in the thought. Yes, it's humiliating, but there's also something about knowing you're being thoroughly claimed, that Joker is marking you as his in another way. There's the brand above your heart—but that's a reminder for you and eye candy for him. This is something else entirely.

" _Now we're talkin'_."

You think this is it as the edges of your vision darken, his grip tightening until you can't even wheeze, the pressure pushing against your skin from the inside in what feels more like a tsunami on the horizon than a series of waves. You need to cum so bad—you're almost there, so _fucking close_ —

But then he pulls out of you with a guttural roar, fisting himself until something wet and warm lands just above your pubic bone. Failing to sit up and only pull a muscle in your arm, you think he'll just keep spending himself on your stomach, staining your dress. It's almost worse when he puts the tip back inside your needy cunt to pump the rest of his cum just inside your entrance, more of a way to mark his territory than for you to get off on the feeling of being full of him—because you've long ago admitted that's what you love the most. It stings, how he's denying you like this, using you like a doll in front of one of his men without even getting you off, and how it somehow turns you on in a way you haven't felt before.

Panting above you, his arms shaking slightly as he releases your throat to allow you to gulp down air, he groans deep in his chest when he pushes his softening cock back inside you. "You can leave now." He doesn't even spare Mitch a glance, his eyes darkening as they stay fixed on you, taking in your needy desperation. "And I, ah, _hope_ I don't have to say this, but _just in case_ …" Finally looking over his shoulder, Mitch stops in the doorway, stiff and his shoulders drawn up to his ears. He's probably wishing mind bleach is real. "If you say _anything_ to anyone, if I catch you even _looking_ at my bunny, I'll gouge your eyes and rip out your tongue and make it into a _nice_ soup for you."

Mitch can't even properly speak, just nod profusely as sweat streams down his temples as he keeps his eyes on the floor. You're not sure how you'll ever be able to face him, and hope Joker will be merciful and assign someone else to do Mitch's job to spare you both the embarrassment and guaranteed awkwardness that's making you cringe just thinking about it.

He waits until the front door is closed to pull out and elicit a moan from you, already missing the feeling of his cock in you. His cum's dripping out of you—you can feel it as it slides down your slit to pool on the floor, and some subconscious part of you can't help but hate him for the waste.

Tucking himself away in his pants, he clicks his tongue at you, eyes fixed on your cum-soaked pussy until he gives you his most insulting attempt yet at appearing sympathetic. "Aww, you all out of sorts now? Did I _fuck you_ too hard?"

Still out of breath, you can only pant, "You… you're the worst."

He laughs, his body spry with mirth as he pulls you up by the front of your dress. "So _mean._ Words _hurt_ , doll. They really do. I think it's time you learned that."

Just like every other time, he doesn't give you any warning, pulling you off the table only to flip you and have you on your stomach, your ass bare as he pulls up your dress. You're about to ask what he's doing when his gloved hand rubs your backside, squeezing the ample flesh before working up to your lower back, pressure alternating from fleeting to painful.

_He—he can't be serious._

"No—no more, Daddy, please—" you whimper, remembering the last time he spanked you and left your ass black and blue and unable to sit properly for a week.

His hand comes hard enough to make you jolt, the leather making a loud smacking sound. He's testing the pressure, how much he's going to make this hurt.

" _You're_ the one who didn't pick, even after you had so many choices, babygirl. This is on _you_ ," he taunts, and you strain until you can see his chest, and you choke at the sight of him rolling up his shirt sleeves to the elbow, adjusting his purple gloves so they're snug on his hands. You're almost glad you can't see the expression on his face. " _Count_."

You don't know what he means until his hand smacks down on your ass. "O-One!" you cry, knowing he'll keep going until you comply and the only one who'll enjoy it is him. "Two— _ah!"_

The next hit lands hard on the other side, somehow hurting more and you grit your teeth to keep from screaming. He's laughing above you, rubbing where you know you'll bruise, waiting until you're not bracing for the next before hitting you again. It hurts, but it also keeps building the unbearable heat in you, the pent-up energy boiling in your belly, until the pain feels good—a twisted kind of pleasure that leaves your vision spinning.

You're not sure how many hits land—you lost the ability to talk after ten—and he doesn't stop until you're a crying mess. Desperate to cum, desperate for him. From how he's smiling, he knows it.

"Look at you, all _tuckered_ out." He rubs your cheek with the back of his fingers, looking at you with something you'd like to think is fondness. You give him your best doe eyes, hoping to communicate that you learned your lesson, but he only chuckles. "Oh, did you think we were finished?" He tsks, wagging a finger as he raises his brows. He's trying not to grin and fails, and you can't tell if it's fear or anticipation that shoots through you and makes your hole ache for him. Bending over you so you can feel that he's hard again, he kisses your shoulder blade, right where he left a scar from the last time he blurred the line between agony and desire. "It's gonna be a _long_ night for you, babygirl."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys for all your love and support. It's blown me away how many people love this series and how much it means to you, and I'm so glad I can share something that brightens your day, even a little bit. 💖 Unfortunately, because school is starting again for me in just over a month and I've been busy with work, I'm likely not going to have the next installment out until September. I hope this holds you over until then, and hopefully when I come back I'll be full of depraved, kinky ideas to surprise you guys again! 🤣
> 
> I hope it's okay that I worked your kissing prompt in at the end, Spicy-Mikki, and thank you for always being so wonderful! 🥰
> 
> Thank you again, and comments are always loved and greatly appreciated! 💖


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